My vegetables have arrived!!!

Every week, I get a box of organic vegetables delivered direct from the farm. There are always potatoes and onions, then possibly carrots and other root veg, cabbage, tomatoes, leeks, squashes – a selection of delights that lasts the week.

There are two main reasons why I get my vegetables delivered:

• Aside from the variety and interest, and the feelgood factor of giving a farmer the whole revenue for his work, the produce is unbelievably, spectacularly tastier. This is not necessarily because organic tastes better per se, but is due to a combination of factors. It’s far, far fresher for a start, the growers aren’t obliged to concentrate on varieties that look pristine and have a long shelf life, and they can harvest when the crop itself is ready, not when the distributors demand it.
• The Vegetable Delivery Lady is quite fit.

I run to the kitchen in haste. Wearing my most ‘come hither’ wolfish grin, I adjust my hair and throw open the side door with panache.

Except it is not the Vegetable Delivery Lady. It is a man. With a beard.

This is not what I was expecting at all. I peer round him to see if the regular Vegetable Delivery Lady is perhaps hiding round the corner in order to spring out and shout ’surprise!!!’

But it is not to be.

I do not understand. When I signed up to the service it was on the basis that I would get my vegetables delivered by foxy Vegetable Delivery Lady and not by a man (with a beard). The organic farm is clearly not quite as it seems. Like many evil corporations, they treat their existing business like dirt whilst giving new customers all sorts of incentives to sign up.

They are as bad as Morrisons. I take my parsnips grumpily and bid him ‘good evening’.

Suddenly, it is the Christmas party season.

Yesterday I got invited to another one, only to accept and find that it’s fancy dress. As everybody knows, in terms of experiences one would rather not go through, fancy dress is right up there with being falsely accused of child molestation. So now, given the theme of ‘anything nautical’ I have to choose between dressing up as:

A fish;

Michael Fish;

Fish (from Marillion)

I also have to give some thought to my own office party. As I work for myself, alone and sad, I am not greatly looking forward to this, although if I cancelled it this year then it may affect morale.

My plan is to stop working at about 4pm one day, before making a slightly embarrassing speech about what a good year it’s been, but how 2005 will bring new challenges and I’ll have to work even harder to meet them. I’ll then get really drunk on my own (beers and wine only), listen to records I don’t particularly like and make a pass at the standard lamp.

At least I won’t have to worry too much about getting home, although it will be embarrassing to get up in the morning and find the standard lamp still there, but we will have to get over this and continue to coexist together in a professional fashion.

Perhaps I should invite the rabbits?

I was extremely concerned to read that the Post Office is thinking about closing lots of Post Offices.

This seems bizarre to me. If the Post Office close the Post Offices then they won’t have anything to do. They will just have to sit around all day, experimenting with queuing systems and stroking their black and white cats, like Bond villains but in a polyester blue uniform and with a crap bike.

Frankly, I think they would make very bad master criminals. Rather than just plant their thermonuclear device round the back of the Houses of Parliament they would expect the Government to make a special trip out to the depot in order to collect and sign for it, then they would go on strike at the first sign of a setback. If James Bond got captured, as he usually does, he would be able to save the world just by turning to his guards and suggesting a minor change in shift patterns.

The Village Post Office is nothing like this, and I would be very sad if it was sold and turned into a Starbucks. It is run by a very nice and helpful couple. The two regular posties are also very cheerful people who like a chat, despite me getting off on the wrong foot with the Lady Postman.

(Two years ago – I’d just moved in. I am chopping logs out the back, and hear the scrunch of gravel on the drive. I wander over, a huge axe slung over my shoulder.)

Her (brandishing post): “Good morning! Here is your post.”

Me (brandishing axe): “Thank you. You’ve just caught me! I’ve just been horribly murdering my wife!”

This was when I learnt my first small village lesson – people tend to talk.

No – if Mr Blair and his cronies try to shut the Village Post Office he will find trouble. I will mobilise public opinion, through this diary and via Sonia the traffic announcer who sends me secret messages in her bulletins (and who now works for BBC Norfolk).

I predict civil disobedience and mayhem.

Friday, early hours. Next door.

Big A has fallen asleep on the sofa. There is no sign of the girls. Short Tony and I are tired of waiting up for them.

We decide to fetch them home and fall out into the dark night. The hundred yard journey to Big A’s house in stretched to a couple of miles in our particular zig zag fashion.

The house is quiet, the curtains drawn. We are still cross about being fed this ridiculous ‘cosmetics party’ spiel.

As we walk up the front drive I have an idea.

“Let’s see if we can find a gap in the curtains,” I suggest. “We might be able to catch them red-handed in their lewd outfits of shame.”

We tumble into the front garden and up to the large bay window. We are extremely quiet as only drunk people can be, with lots of whispering, giggling and hisses of ’sshhh!!!’ There is no gap in the curtains, but a noise from within suggests that our plan has been rumbled.

“Quick!” cries Short Tony. “Into the bushes!”

We leap into the bushes.

The front door opens and a couple of people emerge. Phrases such as “I could have sworn I heard something” are bandied. The door closes again.

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” observes Short Tony, “if we rang the doorbell and then hid again?”

I consider this. I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of British comedy from the late seventies onwards including the UK stand-up scene, coupled with a single appearance at the Edinburgh Festival dressed in a tutu. However, ringing the doorbell and then hiding would clearly surpass anything that anybody had ever done in the name of being funny, ever in the world, ever.

Short Tony creeps out, tiptoes to the door, pushes the bell and then dives back into the bushes.

Again the door opens and there are confused noises, before the ladies retreat back inside.

We are beside ourselves with glee. The girls seem unable to work out what is happening. I reflect that they are clearly embarrassingly drunk, as I crouch sniggering in the rosemary bush with another grown man.

This is probably what Kevin Spacey was really up to.

“Right,” whispers Short Tony. “Your turn.”

I scuttle towards the front door.

[Five turns later]

“You know what?” I ask Short Tony, as once more the girls retreat inside in confusion. “We could do this all night and it wouldn’t become boring.”

[Three turns later]

They are scouring the front garden with a torch. But they are rubbish at finding us. We are like two Norfolk Andy McNabs, using our resourceful survival skills to remain hidden in the rosemary bush.

[Two turns later]

Blows from a large rubber torch rein down on my arms and upper body, as I struggle to protect my head. “You bastards, you bastards!” Mrs Big A keeps repeating. “We were really worried!” Our attempts at apologies intermingle with nervous laughter and howls of pain.

I hadn’t realised that they sold torches at Ann Summers parties. It is probably a Vag-lite.

The LTLP stands back from the scene with her arms folded, looking cross.

“You were a bit late,” I explain. “I came to fetch you home.”

Thursday evening. Next door.

“Well I don’t believe a word of it,” I snorted, as I weighed up whether to be satisfied with conquering the continent of Australia or whether to mount a sneaky additional raid on Madagascar. “I have never heard of this ‘Virgin Vie’ party thing.”

Big A rolled the dice and annihilated my armies. We agreed it was highly unlikely that the girls’ evening really involved demonstrations of cosmetics and face creams. I poured another large glass of wine.

“Let’s face it. It’s an Ann Summers party, isn’t it?” I observed.

We nodded angrily, the undoubted truth dawning on us. We are unaccustomed to being lied to by our spouses. Short Tony attempted to sweep his armies into Europe via Iceland, but was repulsed.

“Well I just hope it doesn’t go on too late,” I stated. “I have a Very Important Meeting tomorrow, and the last thing I need is the LTLP crashing home in the early hours carrying all sorts of probe implements and demanding to be pleasured.”

“It’s disgusting,” agreed Short Tony.

Big A handed in a set of cards, and proceeded to destroy my African presence. Despite some canny dice rolling my interest there was at an end. We reflected on their sad evening, as we enjoyed our board game.

“Even now, she is probably parading round your living room in a rubber basque.” I shook my head in annoyance. “Like a common whore.”

We were now extremely annoyed by their behaviour. I made an abortive raid on China. We poured some more wine.

DVD Movie Review.

The LTLP has bought The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and her convalescence seemed like a good time to tackle the first installment – The Fellowship of the Ring.

I won’t go on about the film too much, as it probably won’t mean anything to readers outside the UK. It was very popular here, and all our friends in the village have seen it.

In a nutshell, it is really just one long chase sequence. If you imagine The Cannonball Run but set in olden days and without banjo music then that is the sort of thing.

It was actually produced in New Zealand. It is very cheap to film there, as they have snow and crags and mountains and stuff already, whilst if they’d have done it in Norfolk they would have had to have used expensive computer technology to generate these, although they could have done the Mordor bits in King’s Lynn. I looked in vain for the Waitangi Treaty House but I could not spot it.

J.R.R. Tolkien wrote many books – The Hobbit, Farmer Giles of Ham and Fly Fishing (sadly out of print and difficult to find) being the most popular. He was famously rubbish at doing female characters, and there is a definite homoerotic subtext between the Hobbits in the Fellowship although nobody actually bums one other. (Admittedly I haven’t yet watched the second disc featuring the deleted scenes).

I have a couple of first and second editions of the books, as my dad was involved in its original production. They are probably a bit valuable now, although sadly none have a signed dedication like ‘Dear JonnyB snr, thanks for all your help with my successful ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogy. Yours, J.R.R. Tolkein. PS thanks for the Golem idea – knockout!!!’

All in all I would give it a 9, losing a point because the background music is too loud and because of the boring bits in the elf forest. Definitely better than the excruciating ‘Sliding Doors’ though, which is the only other DVD we own.

I have an Important Meeting tomorrow, so will return on Monday.

Have a good weekend.

The LTLP has had a small operation.

Only a minor thing. But thanks for your concern – there is no need to send flowers, release charity records etc.

I arrive at the hospital to pick her up.

I have actually been quite worried about her, but at times like these it is always important not to let that show, just in case you relay concern to the patient. So I had been making jokes about death, her not waking up etc. Now it was done, I didn’t have to maintain this difficult façade, and I bounded into the ward just grateful to see her, despite not having had time for any lunch.

“Hellooooo!!!!” I cried, plonking myself down in the chair beside her.

She was still very groggy after the general anaesthetic.

“Urghhh,” she replied.

I glanced over her. She was still wearing a hospital-issue gown and some surgical stockings. I didn’t want to feel put out, but I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days and was just a little let down that she hadn’t made more of an effort.

“So – how did it go?” I asked.

“Urghhh,” she explained.

We conversed like this for a while, whilst I twirled my car keys around my finger. Although she was clearly in a state of recovery, she didn’t seem to appreciate the cost of using an NCP car park. I glanced at my watch.

A nurse approached the bed. I was a bit disappointed – they don’t dress anything like they do in the videos. She seemed very nice, however, and had a thermometer and everything.

“You should start to feel much better very soon,” she explained. “Would you like a glass of water, or some toast?”

“Oooh, toast please!” I replied. “That’s very kind of you.”

She ignored me and took the LTLP’s temperature, before disappearing through the curtain to the next bed..

“We’ll have you out of there and home in no time,” I said. “You’ve not eaten for over twelve hours now – no wonder you feel weak.”

Fortunately, the best curry house in town was just down the road.

“Urghhh,” she said.

“Urghhh,” came the noise from the next bed. At least I think it was “Urghhh.” It could have been “Ohhhh!!!!” or “Eeeaaaahhh!!!!”

“You take your time,” I offered, kindly. “I’ve got the new Nick Cave album and some Leonard Cohen for the drive home.”

“Urghhh.”

I sat and wished I’d brought a newspaper and some sandwiches.